Sermon given by Rev. Frank Clarkson, January 26, 2020
I hope that being here brings you moments of peace, like we just sang about. And I hope you are living your life in such a way, that as the days turn into years, you will know the kind of peace that isn’t the absence of strife or struggle, but a peace with what is. With the light and the shadow, the joy and the sorrow.
This week I had visits with two of our people, each of them aware that death is drawing near. And neither of them afraid of that, or in denial, but rather, open to the blessings of what is, right now. One of these folks is in her nineties, and the other is in her sixties. Their circumstances are quite different. And each of them is facing their reality with courage and grace, and it is a privilege to behold.
A few years ago, a friend was telling about his father, who was getting near the end of his own life. This man had not had a particularly reflective life; he’d spent his years powering through, working hard, seeking after success. But the nearness of death shook him; he started studying the faith he’d dismissed years before. My friend, who like to joke, said this about his dad: “He’s cramming for the final exam.”
Mary Oliver concludes her poem, “When Death Comes, this way: “When it’s over, I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.”
We are the inheritors of a culture that for thousands of years has separated the world into pairs of opposites; that teaches us to see things as either good or bad, sacred or secular; to sort our lives this way. But life is more nuanced and complicated than that. There’s a Zen story about a farmer whose horse runs away. His neighbor says, "That's bad news." But the farmer replies, “Could be good, could be bad, too soon to tell.”
The horse comes back and brings another horse with him. Which most would call good news, right? The farmer gives the second horse to his son, who loves to ride it. But one day he’s thrown from the horse and breaks his leg.
"So sorry for your bad news," says his neighbor. But the farmer replies, “Could be good, could be bad, too soon to tell.”
Not long after, the emperor's soldiers come though the land and take every able-bodied young man to fight in a war. The farmer's son, with his broken leg, is spared. Who knows how the story will end?
This month we’ve been reflecting on power, and I’ve been saying we have more power, individually and collectively, than we know. And this is true. But it is also true that in some ways, and in some places, we are powerless. There are things we have no control over.
A year ago, I had a month of leave, and one of the gifts of that time was the realization that I tend to worry about and brood about things that I have no control over. What a waste of time and energy! So I vowed to stop worrying about things I can’t control. I haven’t been 100 percent successful, but it has made a real difference in my life.
We live in a culture that says, “You can have it all!” That wants us to buy things that are promised to help us escape the pain and aggravation of everyday life. Some of you are old enough to remember a commercial for a savior from an earlier age, which was, of all things, a bubble bath: “Calgon, take me away!” This time of year we see ads that offer escape and promise all kinds of comfort, from warm weather vacations to fancy cars to sweet treats.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for self-care and even some indulgence now and then, but there’s a difference between healthy self-care and the fantasy of running away from your life. When you stop and look at it, there is a beautiful and mysterious world right here, in the midst and the mess of our lives. Beneath our ideas of good and bad, and how things are supposed to be, there is this reality that is both painful and beautiful, there is a peace that comes when you can plant your feet there. It’s where I want to live, in that place of paradox and possibility. “Could be good, could be bad, too soon to tell.”
Paradox is simply something that seems self-contradictory on the surface, but reveals a deeper truth. A hidden wholeness beneath the surface duality. At its best, religion invites us into paradox and nuance and relationship, with ourselves, with others and with the Mystery in which we live and move and have our being. At its worst, religion is a system of rules and structures designed to control people and keep them docile, what Karl Marx called “the opiate of the people.”
The UU theologian James Luther Adams said, “Church is a place where you get to practice what it means to be human.” And this means opening our minds and hearts and arms a bit wider than we thought we could, opening to the pain and the struggle because that’s how you also get to the joy and the peace.
Those of you who have a meditation or prayer practice know something about this, right? It can take a long time, but sitting with your thoughts and feelings, facing the demons that arise, you can find yourself in a place of unexpected peace. Those of you who are runners, or do some other kind of strenuous exercise, you know the pain and struggle, and the joy that comes from pushing through it. When we grieve, and we all need to grieve, it’s good to remember this line from Psalm 30: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”
Religion and poetry and parable can help us to get beneath the surface and in touch with what is real. They offer an antidote to the anxious and divisive world we live in, and point us toward deeper truths. Isn’t it good that we have these companions and guides? Like Marge Piercy, whose poem is a fitting prayer for these days:
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
What are you crying out for, these days? And what is calling out to you? Can you trust that it is holy, this voice that is calling? That even when it’s scary, and it will be scary sometimes, when you follow that voice, it will take you toward a place of promise and possibility. Where you will be in touch with your own power, and with your powerlessness. Where you will find companions for the journey.
Thank God for these lives we have been given, and for these fellow travelers, all we kindred, pilgrim souls. For this day, and for the way that lies before us, let us be grateful, and let us be glad.
Amen.